


If You Were So Inclined

by retrogrademercury



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:48:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retrogrademercury/pseuds/retrogrademercury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as part of the johnlockchallenges August 2012 gift exchange, for Tumblr user nhanhacoisoetalbanana. The prompt (truncated to include the bits I used as inspiration): "John and Sherlock’s first time, with Virgin!Sherlock. BAMF!John having to use his captain voice and generally having to control Sherlock a bit. I think John would have to take things slowly and be tender and loving and all that, just a little forceful (that’s probably not the best word, but can’t think of any other) when Sherlock acts up. Extra kudos for touch starved! and ridiculously sensitive!Sherlock."</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Were So Inclined

 John all but threw himself into his favourite armchair. “I don't know about you, but I have had more than my fill of 'crimes of passion' lately.”

Sherlock, stretched out on the sofa, merely _hmph-_ ed in response.

“Any more of this, and it may put me off sex for a good long while,” John added, hoping to get a rise out of his flatmate.

“As though you need it to survive? You've done fairly well since the boring teacher left you after the Christmas party.”

John bristled; that was not the kind of rise he expected to get. That was due to Mycroft's “danger night” worries, and Jeanette's subsequent on-the-nose observation that he'd do anything for his flatmate. But now wasn't really the time to snap at him. It was late, and they were tired and footsore.

“OK, I do miss it, but I'm surviving,” John conceded. “'Not dead yet! I feel happy!'” He wondered whether Sherlock would actually get the tired Monty Python reference and prepared himself to feel like an idiot yet again.

Not that feeling like an idiot was anything new to him, especially lately. Lately, all he'd been good for (so he thought) was determining the immediate facts of the case. Beyond that, he'd had the same skill set as the skull resting on the mantel—a silent sounding board.

One other thing compounded his self-conceptualisation as a complete git. In spite of the unending parade of love gone wrong marching all throughout London, his subconscious had seen fit to grant him dreams of him and his flatmate _in flagrante delicto._ John tended to regard dreams that weren't Afghanistan-flavoured as relatively benign, but he was beginning to think that maybe he should get out a little more, if Sherlock was all his mind had to go on for material.

“You realise you're incorrectly characterising the nature of this latest crime,” Sherlock said, ignoring the reference completely, and John felt a weak stab in his gut. _“_ It's more properly motivated by jealousy.”

“Well, it's starting to wear on me, the worst of human relationships week in and week out.” John shifted in his chair restlessly. Tea was starting to sound like a good idea. Did they have anything herbal?

“D'you think there's a pattern?” Sherlock turned his eyes to the armchairs, waiting for an answer.

“No, I think we just drew the short straw, which for us means cases featuring a murderous wife and a threesome gone wrong, one after the other,” John replied, a little too quickly, a little too testily. The anger he'd tamped down earlier was rising to the surface.

“Well, I disagree. But I admit, the possibility of a pattern is a half-formed theory at best, so on the shelf it goes.” Sherlock closed his eyes again.

Being in no mood to get riled up any further, John sighed and headed to the kitchen.

 

 

Two hours later, John was in bed and dozing when there came a knock on the door. Sherlock's voice was a stage whisper: “John! I've got at least two theories, and I didn't know you weren't downstairs to hear them. I'll have to start all over. John, are you asleep?”

“Not any more,” John replied in a voice thick with sleep. “You can come in; I'm decent.”

Sherlock's voice preceded the light from the hall, and both quickly filled the room. “You were right. There's no pattern. We just drew the short straw.”

John rolled over and nearly laughed at the absurdity of what he saw. Sherlock, standing in the doorway, was dramatically backlit. His hand was still on the doorknob, making his entrance seem much grander than it was meant to be. His eyes were on John, the object of his... deduction? It was every cheesy, overwrought romantic fantasy come to life, and John knew his subconscious was filing it all away.

Sherlock was carrying on. “So in the case with the jilted third party—what is so funny?”

 _Shit._ John hadn't meant to, but he must've let something slip. Even now, he could feel a chuckle caught in his throat. “Nothing. It's just that I'm an utter idiot,” John said, the words getting away from him.

Even in the half-light, John could see confusion flit across Sherlock's face. _In for a penny, in for a pound,_ a voice in John's head taunted.

Sherlock had formed half of an interrogative word, lips pursed together, but John pressed on. “Look, can I tell you something?” Sitting up a bit, he beckoned Sherlock over to the bed. Sherlock must have picked up on something in John's tone, because he perched himself on the edge of the bed and simply waited for John to speak.

“You might have thought I was joking downstairs, but I wasn't. Something about this week really got under my skin.” Sherlock didn't seem to have a clever remark on hand. “So I was thinking maybe I should sit it out this round.”

Sherlock's eyes went wide at that. “You and I both know that's rubbish,” he said. _You were a soldier_ is what John heard, just below the surface of Sherlock's words.

A corner of John's mouth quirked up at that. “Before this week, I would've agreed with you. But even you can't deny we've been ankle-deep in some dark shit lately.” For the first time since they started talking, John broke his gaze. To the wall, he said, “I think I need a break.”

Sherlock's shadow lunged forward. “You can't, and I can think of at least twelve reasons why.”

John turned back to see the desperation on Sherlock's face at the prospect of being without his companion, a look which in and of itself was doing wonders to change John's mind. But it wasn't enough; Sherlock had to understand his unease.

“You're probably right,” John allowed.

“I'm always right. Well, when it comes to you, anyway,” Sherlock countered.

“Well, then tell me why I'm so put off.” John knew that if there was one thing Sherlock Holmes could not resist, it was a challenge.

“It's simple, really. In these cases, you see your dating failures taken to their terrifying, but logical extremes. 'The worst of human relationships,' as you put it. I fear I may be veering into the realm of psychoanalysis here, so do tell me if I've hit a nerve.”

“Right so far. And funny you should bring up psychoanalysis...”

“You've been having dreams about it,” Sherlock interrupted.

“I have. Care to guess what kind?” John was beginning to relish the subversion of roles, dropping hints like crumbs, hoping Sherlock would follow the trail.

“Sex dreams, obviously... Oh. _Oh!_ ” John could practically see the clues slotting into place just behind Sherlock's eyes. “You've been dreaming about _me._ Which stands to reason, as you're in the middle of a months-long dry spell, and I've always suspected that—” Sherlock stopped himself, and _bit not good?_ was writ large all over his features.

“You can say it,” John assured him.

“I would, but I imagine you'd much rather show me.”

John's heart leapt into his throat, and through it he managed to say, “But would you let me?”

“If it means you'll stay.”

John shook his head. “I won't do anything if you don't want it.”

“I've already said that I don't want you to go, which means that, by extension, I want _you._ ” Sherlock, mercifully, did not append _you stupid man_ to the end of that statement.

John smiled. “Good to know. Now come up here so I can kiss you, would you?”

And Sherlock did, leaning forward to put his face near John's, planting his hands on the mattress and locking his elbows to brace himself. He went still and held his breath.

It wasn't hard to pick up on Sherlock's uneasiness, which made John glad he'd asked Sherlock to come closer instead of demanding. The first touch was tentative—a peck on the lips, really. But it still made Sherlock inhale sharply through his nose and exhale with a quiet sound that came from deep in his throat.

“Here,” John said, tugging on the sleeves of Sherlock's dressing gown. “That can't be comfortable. Come down here, next to me.” Sherlock obeyed, ending up on his side next to John, who was still on his back. After briefly removing the wad of sheets and duvet between them, they picked up where they left off, John threading his fingers through Sherlock's curls as he tried for a deeper kiss. But John didn't get far, as Sherlock leaned into John's hand, drawing John's thumb across his cheek.

“How long has it been?” John whispered. He wasn't sure what he was asking, but the question hung in the air between them all the same.

“Never,” Sherlock breathed. “Silly kissing games in school don't count. Never anything like this.”

“What can I do?” Another vague question, but John was getting to the point where he didn't trust words to help him express what he really meant.

“Anything. I need data, John. I need to know how to make it better for you, so you'll stay...” Sherlock was nuzzling his hand now, making John's fingertips lightly scratch across his scalp. John's thumb slipped down to graze Sherlock's lip, and John nearly jumped when Sherlock's tongue flicked out and caught it in his mouth.

Any delusions John may have harboured about this encounter being merely about the warmth and comfort of being near another person were swept away in a flood of want. John withdrew his thumb, and before Sherlock could finish constructing a pout, their lips were touching again.

What Sherlock offered, John took. And Sherlock was generous in his way, acknowledging every touch and taste with a moan or a sigh, or even a well-placed “please,” which John found both touching and excruciatingly hot. John was sure to thank him for his impeccable manners with a nip or a touch or a sweet, slow grind of his hips against Sherlock's.

When they came up for air, Sherlock had somehow ended up on top of John. Sherlock's dressing gown had been lost to the floor, and John's old T-shirt had been pushed up by agonizing degrees, ending up near his collarbone. Sherlock was on the attack, buried in the crook of John's shoulder. At the first brush of fingertips along the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's wrists. “No, not yet,” he said firmly. “Just leave everything to me for now.”

Sherlock sat back a bit and nodded, eyes luminous in the light that still poured in from the hallway.

John decided to attempt conversation again, if only for the purpose of a status update. “Everything still OK?”

“Yes, fine. Please, no more interruptions,” Sherlock replied, a shade of his usual self coming through.

So it was immediacy he wanted, no hemming and hawing. “I want you out of those clothes,” John said, low and dark. “And I want you to ask me to undress you.”

“Please,” Sherlock said without hesitation. “I'll beg harder if you need me to, just don't stop touching me.”

“Sit up and raise your arms,” John ordered. Sherlock sat back on his heels, and with a lift and a tug, the shirt joined the dressing gown on the floor.

In this light, Sherlock became planes and angles. It was nothing John hadn't already seen—he'd gotten a sudden, embarrassing eyeful at Buckingham Palace, after all. But this was different, because it was intentional. It was the result of negotiation and permission and a deep-seated need. And Sherlock wasn't just showing off; he wanted to be adored.

All of it made John's head go a bit fuzzy, and all he wanted now was to go back to touching and tasting and hearing. Nails dug into Sherlock's back; lips and tongue left bruises and marks in their wake; and all of it tore from Sherlock wordless cries.

“If this is too much, say so now,” John growled.

“John, I want... I want...” Sherlock panted, clutching at John, trying to show him just how much.

“On your back, then,” John ordered in the same tone. When Sherlock had arranged himself on the bed, John said, much more softly, “You gorgeous man. I can't even tell you the things I want to show you.”

Sherlock hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his pyjama bottoms and pulled down, just a bit, his back arching inadvertently. His eyes slid closed and his mouth went slack. The act was impossibly demure and blatant, all at the same time.

John batted Sherlock's hands away again, and they ended up at his sides. “Keep them there until I say so, and just let me take over.” Sherlock _hmm-_ ed as though in thought, but John knew it was meant as a sign of assent.

The thought sprang unbidden to his mind that what John was about to do was rather akin to unwrapping a present. It was an apt observation, John decided as he finished pulling down Sherlock's pyjama bottoms. What was Sherlock in this moment, if not a gift freely given? Or perhaps a good-luck charm, meant to keep the darkness and nightmares at bay.

Leaning down, John dropped a little kiss on the tip of Sherlock's erection and let his tongue flick out to catch the wetness gathering there. But to Sherlock, the small gesture was an electric shock, and he shouted, bright and loud.

“Shh, sweet. The whole street will hear,” John soothed, but it was all false chiding. He dipped his head again and swirled his tongue around the head, over the slit, nudging back the foreskin. Sherlock inhaled a gulp of air and did not let it go for a long moment—not until John ran his tongue along the underside, at which point it came out as a moan.

This wasn't the time to tease, and John knew that if he kept up this sort of approach, that's all it would be. So John refused to, grasping Sherlock's hips and taking him into his mouth completely.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, his hips bucking of their own accord. His hands grasped fistfuls of sheets, and his head lolled from side to side. John applied a bit of suction and set a rhythm, and Sherlock sobbed and moaned, his body following John's lead.

But, of course, it couldn't last. With one last call of “John!” Sherlock came, shaking like a leaf. John hummed appreciatively, swallowing with aplomb and taking great care as he drew back and replaced Sherlock's pyjama bottoms, bunched uncomfortably around his thighs.

“Well done,” John murmured, moving up to the top of the bed. Sherlock hadn't moved, and John stroked his hair and just kept touching him, every inch he could reach.

“John,” Sherlock said after a long moment had passed.

“Yes?” By this point, John had taken to kneading the muscles in Sherlock's shoulders, searching for knots to ease away.

“I should reciprocate. It's... fair.”

“And how do you propose to do that?”

“Like this.” And Sherlock kissed him, almost too sweetly for a man who was so acerbic most of the time. John couldn't help but melt. Such a lovely distraction from the hand that snaked down John's front and under his waistband.

Now it was John's turn to yelp. He'd neglected himself for too long, and now it seemed he could burst at any given moment.

“I want to. May I?” The whispered request was everything John didn't know he wanted.

“Please.” And with that, Sherlock slid down, almost to the foot of the bed.

And then his courage faltered.

“Er, John, I don't...” he began, and then scowled. John recognised it for what it was: frustration at the fact that Sherlock didn't know something.

“Whatever you do, it'll be fine.” John reached out and grasped what he could reach of Sherlock from this distance, which turned out to be a hand.

This seemed to put Sherlock at ease. “I need to see you,” he said matter-of-factly, freeing John from his clothing with just one hand.

Sherlock treated John to the same thoughtfulness he'd been shown earlier—everything slow, firm, and steady. If it were anyone else, John would have arched his back and thrust in, but not now, not with Sherlock so curious and nearly overwhelmed. So instead, John gradually interlaced his fingers with Sherlock's, holding him as tight as he could given the circumstances. Sherlock hummed as John had, and the sensation threatened to tip John over the edge.

“Nearly there, love,” John gasped.

Sherlock fixed his gaze on John's face, eyes full of blazing intelligence and burgeoning affection, and that alone was what sent John over. He barely registered Sherlock pulling away and setting him to rights.

“So will you stay?” Sherlock asked softly, sitting back on his heels again.

“Only if you will.” John spread out the bedding as an invitation, and Sherlock gratefully accepted. Tomorrow might bring another terrible spectacle, but it could wait. The world had narrowed to the two of them, and John's fingers in Sherlock's hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to domenicapm for the beta duties, especially when things threatened to get too sweet.
> 
> Title is from "Open Mind" by Wilco.


End file.
